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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24545011">Desperate Times</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreatGawain/pseuds/GreatGawain'>GreatGawain</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Adventures of Pink Floyd [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Pink Floyd</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Gen, Not Slash</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 00:35:13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>953</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24545011</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreatGawain/pseuds/GreatGawain</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Roger just wants to eat his hangover away with cereal</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Adventures of Pink Floyd [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1772323</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Desperate Times</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Roger was extremely hungover, the aftertaste of their party the night before still resting uncomfortably on his tongue. After rolling – literally – out of bed he managed to find his feet long enough to immediately fall back on the mattress: the pounding in his head was so loud he was sure the neighbors could hear it too. He groaned as it swirled around in his ears and the pressure threatened to burst right through his skull. Curse that Mike Leonard for coaxing him into drinking whatever ghastly cocktail he had managed to come up with. He scraped his tongue against his teeth in a vain attempt to rid it of the stale taste of cheap liquor and cigarettes, dreading the inevitable trip down the stairs he would have to make in order to reach the kitchen and, hopefully, something to ease his pain. He sighed heavily and mentally prepared himself to get up again.<br/>
He managed to somehow make it down the stairs without falling on his face, though his legs were a bit wobbly by the time he descended the last step. Taking a moment to lean against the wall and compose himself he briefly considered just giving up and going back to sleep right there at the foot of the staircase, but decided against it only because he had already come this far. Relief was only several strides away and he could surely make it to one of the chairs at the kitchen table, which he desperately hoped were unoccupied – though even if they weren’t, he still had enough strength to forcibly make them so.</p><p>After a couple centuries he finally trudged his way to the cupboard. He had already made up his mind that he was going to treat himself to a simple bowl of cereal, as cooking was certainly out of the question in his current state. He could already taste the cool milk filling his mouth and hear the delicate crunch of cornflakes between his teeth, accented by just the slightest touch of heavenly sugar sprinkled quickly when nobody was looking. Nobody needed to know that Roger still ate cereal the way his mother used to prepare it for him when he was three. His mouth was practically watering as he rubbed his eyes with one hand and pulled the cabinet open with the other. Except it didn’t open; his arm met resistance and he slowly opened his tired, confused eyes to see a padlock sealing the door closed, locking him out of his precious hangover cure.</p><p>He suddenly didn’t feel so tired anymore.</p><p>
  <i>“RICHARD!!!”</i>
</p><p>The aforementioned man nearly screamed yet caught himself, but did drop the bar of soap he was holding, fumbling clumsily in the shower as he tried to pick it back up. Anybody shouting with that much vitriol in their voice was either being murdered or about to murder someone else. He rushed the rest of his shower in record timing, then threw a towel around his waist and nearly sprinted out of the bathroom, not even stopping to dry off his hair. In no time he found himself in the kitchen doorway, staring at a severely haggard-looking Roger who seemed almost like he was about to burst into tears. He found it quite amusing but much less so once he noticed he was also holding a large knife in his hand, which he sliced through the air to point in his direction.<br/>
“Why the FUCK is there a lock on the kitchen cabinet?! What kind of psychopath locks up their <i>cornflakes?”</i><br/>
Richard blinked, relieved that his flat mate was in no danger of dying but increasingly worried that he himself now was. The droplets of water rolling down his torso and collecting in tiny puddles on the floor now felt like sweat as he repositioned his towel nervously. “You know I can’t trust you lot. Every box I’ve bought since living here, you’ve managed to go through the same day. Not to mention ever since you ripped the plastic off my carton of cigs I’ve had to be extra careful with my things.”<br/>
“That was <i>one time!”</i><br/>
“Once was enough! Would you please get that weapon out of my face now?”<br/>
Roger sighed in frustration, but conceded and tossed the cutlery onto the counter before setting himself on top of it as well, throbbing head in hands. “I was using it to try and pry open this ridiculous set up you created. I am very tired, very hungry, and very hungover. Thanks to you, I am now very angry as well. If I don’t get to make a bowl of fucking cereal in the next five minutes I might use it to pry <i>you</i> open ne- Rick! Where the hell are you going?!”<br/>
Richard was already halfway up the stairs by the time Roger noticed he no longer had an audience. He turned around with the mildest look of exasperation in his eyes. “I’m going to get the key, mate. I can’t open it with my bare hands.”</p><p>Syd walked in from the other room then, bleary-eyed and looking to be in even worse shape than his friend. “What the Christ are you all shouting about? It’s far too early for this nonsense, I can’t hear my thoughts get thunk.” Roger didn’t even look up as he pointed to the forbidden goods, still cradling his suffering head. Syd followed his finger and as soon as his gaze landed on the locked door he exploded into laughter, collapsing into a heap on the floor while Richard reappeared, fully clothed and less damp this time, and allowed a fragmented Roger to finally remedy his aching stomach. He continued to giggle all through the rest of breakfast.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>As requested from Tumblr: "Please please please write about that time Rick locked his cornflakes in a cupboard so Roger wouldn't eat them"<br/>I can't think of anything funnier than the fact that they all used to live together at one point in the very early days so I just had to make this a funny one too</p></blockquote></div></div>
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